


Dough Knots

by AzulMountain



Series: Erotic Pastry Shop for the Supernatural [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Exhibitionism, Food Kink, Healing, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Near Death, Oral Sex, Public Humiliation, References to Knotting, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Tranquilizers, mentions of body fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzulMountain/pseuds/AzulMountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let’s just say finding out Stiles is working in an erotic pastry shop has long been forgotten.</p><p>Stiles being supernatural, that’s pie. </p><p>What really takes the cake for Sheriff Stilinski, is discovering that he is an expecting grandpa in a place where XXX Sugar has everything to do with sex.<br/> <br/>And it's all because of a not so innocent batch of blackberry cream puffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dough Knots

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I finally got around to continuing the series! Read part one for the smut. Read part two for how embarrassing life can get when a dark joke turns wrong. It's the big Mpreg reveal that everyone has waited for. Slight non-con element for Stiles' lacing food with bodily excretion (shit, thank you Mimi for the idea from The Help) Also there is an old biddy that takes advantage of Derek when he can't consent (nothing graphic) just a heads up. This is a bit more of a slow build than the first, but I hope you like it. Comments are welcome.
> 
> Don't forget that Stiles Stilinski and Dylan O'Brien (Old Dyl, incubus and owner of Dyl's Dough Erotic Pastry Shop) are two different people in this verse. And I'm not trying to insult the actor who plays Stiles. It was a thought in the first part that continued to the second, sorry. It's weird, so just go with it.
> 
> There is a third part that is straight back to the smut. So if that is what you are looking for and don't like this one's pace, try that, and let me know what you think. Warning though it is a bit strange. Look for that soon.
> 
> Enjoy!

Any werewolf worth his or her nose knows that the moment the bride’s brother arrives, he in rut.

But not just any rut, Derek Hale reeks of _The Rut,_ the sexual period instigated by the first time with a true mate and lasts for four days or until the mate is pregnant. The special event carries a heady scent that sends even the most seasoned wolves’ hearts atwitter. It’s a crucial time to be spending with the true mate. But this stud is here alone, single, no plus one.

A freshly mated male sans his other half is a boiling mess on high. There is no waiting for the impending meltdown because it is already happening. So it’s only natural that the pre-wedding brunch arranged meticulously by _Bridzilla_ , a.k.a. Laura Hale, is the perfect place for a little trauma, not so great first impressions, and Laura Hale out for the _cojones_ of one Stiles Stilinski.

The general surliness and snappish attitude is excusable, even the constant foul funk the young werewolf copiously over shares with the in-laws, but it’s when the man’s hallucinations start that the highbred East Coast family begins to fold under the awkwardness. They look to the groom, Tommy Aster, with anger and pity for this family’s union to theirs. Derek Hale is hardly a suitable brother-in-law to their Tommy.

Tommy, in turn, looks to his bride, Laura Hale for direction. While he may be alpha to the Aster pack and heir to a sizeable fortune made in real estate and fur during the Industrial Revolution, he is hopelessly in love with the monster of a woman.

Laura takes one glance at her brother’s end of the table, eviscerates her delicately poached eggs, porcelain plate, and four inch thick oak table with her spoon in one swipe and dismisses the chaos through grinding teeth. “ _Everything is fine!_ ”

Despite the command spoken in her alpha tone, it doesn’t make the situation true. It just means that everyone present, beta and below, won’t say anything. Tommy smiles radiantly at his fiancé to show his solidarity for her decision making, but his eye is twitching with irritation. Ignoring the commotion is growing more and more difficult as Derek, in a fit of hallucination, is getting handsy with a particularly ugly broach adorning the floral lapel of Tommy’s ancient raisin/great-grandmother sitting across the brunch table from the rutting nuisance.

Derek’s whispered babble about the particular hue of amber in the broach’s gems makes more sense when Laura informs the company that her brother’s new mate has a particularly rare ethereal glow to his human eyes.

“They can appear as radiant as honey or as precious citrine depending on the light. Even the color of this whiskey,” she comments to her horrified guests as she pours herself four fingers of wolfs bane laced gut-rot and tries to steer the conversation to less damaging topics like the watercress and salmon salad.

Sadly, her tactic fails and things turn for the worse as Derek’s fevered rut peaks and Stiles is absent. His haze laced words, once considered poetic, turn vulgar. Repetitive grunts of ‘knotting’ and ‘baby batter’ spill from his mouth as the deprived man bends across the fine linen table to lasciviously lick the woman’s jewelry and bury his head in the bewildered woman’s cleavage.

Derek begins to rub his engorged member over the linen table cloth as he continues to confuse the broach’s gems with Stiles’ eyes and attempt to mate. The agony of a hard-on in his feverish fit, remarkably damages his coordination. To walk around the table to get at his mate’s warm body is like crossing a desert. Instead he simply stands, knocking his chair over, and then crawls onto the brunch table and continues. His humping quickly turns into thrusts as the various plated brunch offerings fall victim to his tented bulge.

In a particularly wild swivel of his hips that has many present groaning in awe of the werewolf’s prowess, the man’s package batters into his brunch plate causing a greedy pyramid of Stiles’ cream puffs to explode. The blackberry cream rockets all over the brunch spread and guests. Deaf to cries of surprise around him, Derek continues to grind into the table with total abandon.

The werewolves at the table take one sniff of the ruptured confection and understand at once why the guests were told to leave them to Derek and only to Derek.

Disgusted shock renders everyone frozen, except for the old senile biddy across the table from the fool. Hands full of the writhing younger man; she quickly gets over her incredulity, locks her arms tight around his scruffy face, and smothers him into her wrinkly cleavage. Her excitement grows as she enjoys the younger man cupping her deflated saggy breasts and ignores Derek’s needy voice calling her by a different name.

 _What the hell is a Stiles?_ She grumbles at the thought as she leans over and presses her cracked dry lips to the back of his neck. Leaving a fuchsia pink smear of lipstick, she howls, “Give it to me, boy!”

“Grandma!” Tommy’s mother remarks loudly, shocking the Brunch party out of their stupor.

Several bodies begin to wrestle with the rut stricken man to pull him away from the ancient raisin, but Derek clings stubbornly to the broach. His hips snap without losing tempo for all their effort to free their matronly family member. The crash of spilling crystal glasses everywhere hardly muffles his moaning grunts as the table continues to suffer under his ministrations.

It is not long before Derek’s fever feels far from pleasurable. He starts wailing his discontent because without Stiles he can’t knot and end this fiery agony. They have to get Derek to Stiles or Derek will be damaged permanently from orgasm denial and fever.

The great-grandmother doesn't make things any easier as she holds tight to the werewolf’s head, refusing to let her opportunity pass. After all, it has been many a year that a man has touched her so passionately and never was her lover so good looking. The tycoon blood of an Aster flows through her veins and implores her to take advantage of the delicious/delirious boy.

Her human growl impresses many of the werewolves when they finally succeed in ripping the embracing pair apart (Technically it was a threesome, Derek held no interest in the raisin only the broach attached to her jacket). So when Derek is thrown off the table and into the gazebo twenty feet away by an enraged Laura, he takes his prized broach with him and thus exposing saggy tits to the entire table as the great grandmother’s casual wear gives with the heavy pendant.

Derek is unperturbed by the separation and continues to rock his hips furiously. Curling tightly around the amber gem piece and continues to put on quite a show in the grass. The thirty members of the Aster family watch on, while Derek thoroughly tarnishes his reputation and the broach’s purity.

Tommy runs into the house for the tranquilizer gun, the only option available to help Derek. Flushed mothers, feeling humiliated by their own voyeuristic arousal and jealous of the older raisin, finally tear their eyes away and direct their young children away from the garden and into the house. Older teens snicker at the pathetic sight of Derek humping the ground, but a hard cuff to the back of the head from pissed fathers sends them inside. But not before taking along with them the dire warning to never allow this basic mating mistake to happen them by the wizened grandfather.

Eventually Derek winds down enough that the wolf’s bane tranquilizers Tommy shoots him up with conquers the adrenaline, phenyl ethylamine, and testosterone fueling his sex crazed body and puts him into a restless sleep. 

With the show over, the family reacts. Calls for the groom to cancel the wedding ring around the garden as the Aster females circle the bride. Laura stands strong. Sure she feels humiliated, but she is more angered at their presumptuous behavior for telling her she is not good enough for her true mate. Things get heated as the bride is the target of a full werewolf squabble. _Bridzilla_ proves unbeatable and clears a defensible space around her and her unconscious soon-to-be-dead-by-her-hands-alone-brother much to the chagrin of her feral blue blood in-laws. Oblivious to the fight, Derek sleeps away his rut in a sweaty mess of tainted cream and salmon salad at her feet.

The Asters seem poised to rally a second attack when a sudden moan of ecstasy carries through the garden drawing everyone’s attention. There seated at the messy brunch table, the hunched great-grandmother is busy devouring the mess of defiled cream puffs on Derek’s plate with her hands. Giving up all together, she starts licking the plate. Her rapture is made known to all as the tiny being squeals, “Ummmmmm, so good!”

Saliva ropes -stained purple by the blackberry cream, grotesquely stretch as cream dribbles down her chin. The great-grandmother strains to stuff one cream puff after another in chipmunk fashion without dislodging her dentures.  Her garbled moans are almost unintelligible, but the picture of their polished aristocratic great grandmother bare chested, flushed, and shoving dessert into her mouth with abandon is too bizarre to remember they are out for Hale blood.

Truly the Hales inspire madness because this cannot be the honorable matron of the family. They stare in shock and wait for the demonic vision to pass; it never does.

When enough air can pass through her overstuffed mouth, she meets her gawking family’s eyes and pants, “Piss off, you overstuffed pigeons! You’re harshin’ my mellow.”

Once the plate is licked clean and all traces of the cream puffs are gone, except for the lone one she holds in her tiny fist (the mess coating Derek’s crotch is off limits- Laura draws the line for her unconscious, thus non-consenting, brother to keep the enthralled raisin at bay), the surprisingly hip blue blood turns to her great-grandson and speaks sweetly, “Tommy boy, marry that girl, so we can get more of these scrumptious things.”

Her joy filled laugh is smothered as she stuffs the last cream puff into her mouth and weeps happily. She pulls Laura and Tommy’s hands together with a sticky gesture of peace and forgiveness over the drugged paramour at their feet.

“Can’t argue with Grammy Agatha,” Tommy happily accepts the old woman’s request and kisses Laura soundly, damn what the rest of the pack thinks.

They share a reassuring kiss, before Laura hugs her fiancé tight with relief and whispers quietly in his ear, “Please tell me she has had her Hepatitis A and B vaccine series?”

 

 

No one really remembers the wedding, but the Hale-Aster family brunch will live on in werewolf infamy. Derek Hale’s name becomes shamefully associated with the important lesson about carless rut management in werewolf sex-ED. Many will question the alpha sister for making her brother come to the brunch in the first place. It is never explained why Derek’s mate was not there, just that the stud was left alone in a desperate time and the ensuing chaos, the result. Humorously, the story does mention that the soiled broach, worth quite a sum, was given to the young man as a prize for such a rapturous performance by the older woman. To the demoralized and utterly humiliated Derek years later when he is asked if it is all true by strangers, it is hardly a consolation prize.

 

* * *

Stiles doesn’t know why he looks up from the tiled floor and bedraggled mop strands slopping at his feet, but he does and it saves his life.

Through the grimy front window of Dyl’s Dough, Stiles sees a vision of vengeance. It is Laura Hale in all her fury as the goddess Kali reborn. Truces of black hair whip about her divine face, defying gravity as her pulsing rage manifests for the world to see. Impeccably dressed in her designer casual, the irate goddess must have come straight from the brunch and something tells him it’s not to thank him for the cream puffs.

Stiles gulps through his dry throat as her demonic eyes narrow when she notices her prey’s attention.

_Oh shit._

Stiles stumbles a step backwards in terror, dropping the mop and tipping the contents of the murky bucket all over the bakery floor. His eyes can’t leave the werewolf’s face; he is too mesmerized by the entity of his doom. It’s all too unreal, a werewolf is glaring murder at him and all he can think is she is the perfect villain for an action comic flick or video game; with a little red leather, a weapon –other than her terrifyingly sharp claws and fangs…

_Oh god._

He wishes he could smack himself for being turned on by Derek’s sister, but he can’t bring himself out of his fantasy.

As if Laura can tell Stiles is in the midst of a super-villain daydream, her smile becomes feral. He’ll be that much more fun as she draws him slowly back to reality with pain.  _So much pain._ The super geek won’t be able to disassociate reality with his fantasy as she slices him into a world of pain. He will pay for her disastrous morning, for his little prank, and for hurting her brother; for daring to breathe, after disrespecting her in so many ways.

Laura takes a moment to daydream herself as Stiles has yet to make any sign of surfacing from his. Flashes of her claws separating his scrotum and dipping his hairy balls in frosting before cramming them down his gullet seem like a nice place to start. Red eyes ignite with mirth of his torture. This will be fun and therapeutic after all the stress of being a bride. Her friends tried to warn her that in-laws could be stressful.

And Stiles looks like the perfect stress ball.

A revelation occurs to Stiles in the midst of his fantasy-action moment: the supernatural is very real, so he can stop pretending. His aching lower back and tender hole is a very clear reminder. If he could go back to yesterday and believe werewolf knots were just some sicko’s kink in cake choice, he might take it, especially if it meant he wasn't about to die by a supernatural villain. BUT that would mean he would never have known Derek, all of him. His furry little problem and fantastic knot are worth this ending, if it means he got to be with his love for that short while.

A righteous spark of misplaced bravery crawls through his quaking chest and he utters to Laura with sound resolve, “Bring it!”

Fangs push over painted lips as her smirk expresses her glee at the invitation to maul. Stiles immediately wishes he hadn't just taunted a pissed off werewolf. ‘Holy hell, I did not just say that! I kinda got caught up in my head. Seemed like the sort of thing a hero would say, right before a fight scene. Sorry Derek, great round, but this is so not worth it.’

Dylan, incubus and boss of the erotic pastry shop, stands in his office door and snarls over the disorder of his precious shop. He looks up to the back of his young employee with a scowl. “Idgit! Does this look like a clean floor to you?”

Honestly, Old Dyl had been a bit proud to see his little protégé so thoroughly debauched coming in to work that morning. Being a sex demon and all; he can get behind a thorough fucking. The purple love bites littering the kid’s neck were a nice touch, too. However, when Dylan matched the reek of the sex-capade that left his shop in ruins to the heat on the kid, he put two and two together. The loss of product alone numbers in the hundreds and that is not counting the surfaces and tools (the horror) he is going to have to replace. The little shit even used his personal shower. His stingy nature conquered any congratulations he was going to yell at the debauched lad.

The boss’s mood brightened when he realized he had culprit in hand. He was going to milk the mortified kid for all he could. Stiles was thoroughly reamed (verbally- don’t growl, Derek!), docked pay, and placed on cleaning duty. And will remain the grunt, until every ingredient and tool used in the ‘scene’ was bought and paid for thrice-over.

If Dylan never mentioned the fact that the stink of the couple's lust permeating the shop would likely quadruple sales for the period it remained, then Stiles didn’t need to know. He’s human, so it’s not like the brat would appreciate it. And man, does it smell good! 

“S-s-save me!”

It is only then that Dylan registers the pungent stink of fear steadily filling his shop. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ he growls in his head. This shop should smell of cake, desire, and arousal; never fear. The little human is ruining his shop’s ambiance. The more olfactory inclined patrons will be disgusted. Old Dyl may run a less than reputable establishment to the vanilla folk in town, but he has standards and the amount of damage this kid is causing masks any of the positive scents he recently contributed. At the rate Stiles is going it will take weeks to air out.  It smells like a murder in here.

He follows the kid’s line of sight and realizes there may very well be a murder in here. The rabid _B_ _ridzilla_ , also known as Alpha Hale, stands at the threshold and is leaking the most feral killing intent Dylan has ever felt.

_Not good._

Dylan slides between the irate customer and the intended victim, who to the displeasure of those with supernatural sense of smell, has just added a mist of urine to the atmosphere of the shop. Urine is of course bad for business (just as much as the scent of fear) and he is tempted to give the troublesome employee to the werewolf just to get the funk off the premises.

But he can't do that. The kid is a hard worker that he only has to pay minimum wage/no benefits and has taken to the business like no other before him, so the incubus can’t really let that happen. Plus, murder looks really bad when the permits are up and the health department comes-a-knocking.

“Now, Laura, calm down. Complaints are welcome, but I can’t have you murdering my cute employees any time you are unhappy with a cake; especially, when my employee happens to have familial connections to the Sheriff. We don’t need that kind of attention, if you get my meaning. Only so many wildlife kills in stores go unquestioned.”

“Shut your sleaze hole before I get herpes, Dylan.” Laura spits in the man’s face, then darts her head to the side to scream at Stiles, hidden behind the obese sex demon.

“The little fucker knows all about things that go bump in the night. In fact, he went bump all night on my little brother’s knot and didn't have the balls to stick around. Conned him into a mating so you could see the freak show and sneaked out after the thrill! Didn't you, you little piss ant?!”

“Wh- what?” Stiles is backed up into a sink near the door and can barely manage to stand his legs are shaking so hard. And so what if he may have wet himself a little bit more, he is fucking freaked. Dylan, a man that easily outweighs Laura by a hundred and fifty pounds, can barely hold her at bay; what the hell can he do to protect himself?

“Tha-at is not wha’ hap-!” Stiles is slow to pronounce his words in his fright and doesn’t get to say much as Laura’s screaming again interrupts his protest.

“Derek is in pain, fumbling through _The Rut_ without his worthless mate! And here you are, you bastard, baking cakes and mopping, completely unaffected. You’re practically glowing! Derek is a fucking mess. He asked me to cut his balls off to put him out of his misery. I had to tranq him again because you weren't there and wouldn't answer your damn phone. This is your fault! You’re the reason Tommy’s family think I am a joke and Derek is the biggest sleaze this side of the country- other than Dylan here!”

“Hey!” Dylan scoffs, spitting out a clump of her black hair lodged in his mouth from the effort to keep the irate woman out of the shop. In his strain he has shifted and leathery wings push out of a fat roll. Stiles is just glad for the extra protection, even if the things look like they haven't been used in years.

“Laura, Derek said-“ Stiles tries again to let the woman know he and Derek parted last night to clean up knowing that they would meet in only a couple hours to go to the brunch together. He really wanted to see the bitch’s face when Derek presented his special cream puffs. The joke would pass with good humor or at least lots of people to witness the mauling should things sour. They assumed she would be happy enough with Derek finally mating that she wouldn't gut Stiles for disrespecting her. All would be swell, crab cakes and bloody mary's, the end.

It should have been fine, except Stiles poked his head into the bakery to inform Dylan about needing emergency time off this morning. His boss had been pissed about the state of the kitchen and ruined product. Forced to clean or be fired on the spot, Stiles figured a couple hours couldn't hurt. He sent a text to Derek that he would be late to the brunch and Derek had said he was fine to go alone. Their hot love making apparently made a larger mess than they initially tried to cover up and Stiles felt guilty. Dylan was being super sadistic and made Stiles go over every inch of the shop. Regardless, Stiles didn't make the brunch, Derek was not as fine as he thought, and now, Laura is here to obliterate him.

“If the wedding had been canceled after this morning’s fiasco, I would have murdered your dad and your BFF Scottie on principle for nearly taking everything from me. Instead, I’ll just take my sweet time with you. Make you feel the pleasure of your intestines as I slowly unwrap your-”

Stiles screams, “Get away from me!” He manages to dodge the claws that try to reach him. Laura missing as she struggles to make contact around the incubus’s fat rolls. Stiles watches in horror as the petite woman shoves the incubus into the security grate and smashes his fat face into the metal grill, before clobbering the man over the head with her fist. The man slumps down the door jam, just inside the door. Luckily, the incubus’s girth keeps Laura from immediately entering the cramped entrance.

Dylan is a puffing mess and his face looks like a waffle iron attacked him, but he holds against the ramming force of _Bridzilla_ trying to get past. Stiles can tell the retired porn star won’t last long. Endurance along with his thin waistline, long have left the confection lover.

Stiles has to do something, but he can’t figure out what. His mind flits through dozens of unsubstantiated pop culture references about killing werewolves, but he comes up empty handed. No wooden steaks or silver are in reach from the small sink cabinet behind him. The rounded icing knife he picks up from the sink basin will do nothing, but smooth out her wrinkled clothes. He doesn’t think he has time to make a run for the kitchen for a sharp edged knives. Hell, even the plastic forks for cake tastings could do more damage than what he has managed to find, but they are on the display case across the room. Derek would probably be more impressed that he could somehow damage Laura with a spork than upset that he tried to hurt his sister.

Even if she is trying to kill him, he doesn't want to hurt her. Stiles is more a fan of passive-aggressive than aggressive, which is what got him into trouble in the first place. He should really go with passive, but it's a bit late to join a commune, so he resolves to use the icing knife. He can see the whites of her red glowing eyes as she manages to slip above Dylan and squeeze through the gap near the top of the door. He chucks the rounded knife at her, thinking it a better projectile weapon than a close combat and it actually strikes her in the face. At least the handle does, he is no ninja.

Stiles maybe sees a pink indentation, but it's gone before the knife clatters to the floor. Weaponless and somehow managing to piss Laura off even more (you think?), Stiles has no time left. Only one thought has time to cross his mind, 'Protect me.'

Something deep in him sparks to life.

The incubus is shocked when a power builds between him and the spitfire werewolf using his face as a climbing hold to get to the kid. The two supernatural beings are blown apart by an invisible force drawn across the threshold of the door. Laura lands in a heap in the middle of the street, toppling heels-over-head, and looking as disheveled and shocked as the older demon. Old Dyl is curling out from under a toppled cake cart.

The incubus smears the gooey mess of blue frosting from the naughty Smurfette cake from his eyes and looks over to the boy in wonder.

Stiles is gaping out the door at the werewolf in the street with absolute bewilderment. “What just - _Oh shit!_ ”

The incubus struggles to stand in the slick mess of frosting. Flapping his wings furiously and spraying blue icing everywhere, he only manages to get to his knees before his strength runs out. Dylan can just look over the sill of the front window to see what has Stiles ready to piss himself... more.

Laura is doing a perfect impression of a bull ready to charge. Her heel snaps as she paws at the ground and goes flying into a car windshield parked across the street. The once immaculate Hale now looks like she has been rolling in the pen of the animal she is imitating. Hunched down onto all fours, in broad daylight, she starts transforming into her alpha form. A full fur coat puffs around her brunch dress, until the fine material shreds off her hulking form. Long claws push from her nails and her face stretches grotesquely into a pointed snout full of very sharp teeth.

She roars at the erotic pastry shop and charges right at her target through the unbarred doorway.

“STAY OUT!”

There is no warmth the way this felling builds in him. All Stiles can feel is a space newly awakened, but it feels wrong. Despite the warning Stiles pushes because Laura is going to kill him if he can’t get this to work again. This new power radiates and strains to meet his demand and does so, remarkably, as Laura slams into the force with a disgusting crunch of bones.

Stiles feels relief and tries to end the tingly feeling. But it’s too late to stopper the energy. He feels like a muscle he never knew existed is strained and letting him know how badly he fucked up by cramping in very painful manner. The first time he tried skiing pales in comparison to the burn in his core. Stiles slides down the metal sink to the floor. What is left of his inner magic settles protectively in the bowels of his lower abdomen. He curls in on himself, trying to grasp the last vestiges of the spot’s warmth and wills it to fix whatever he has done to himself. Calling it out, nothing happens, everywhere hurts. He is dying.

“Thank Shelly, the stalking werewolf whore! I knew that little doozy of a security feature would be useful, but damn! You see this lady werewolf was a bit enamored…” It takes Dylan a moment to realize his audience isn’t listening to the story of his brilliant forethought. The boy is writhing on the floor. The scent in the air dissipates from lightning to pain to the acrid taint of the dying.

Laura’s snarling dampens to a whine as she picks up on the same scent. She watches with inept horror as her brother’s mate, she wanted dead only moments ago, is gasping as he silently screams on the floor. "Stiles!"

Realizing too late what has happened, she curses her quick temper. This is her fault! Her brother’s mate is not so human as she thought. The supercharged air of mountain ash ionizing from a Spark’s power wafts through the air as she frantically thinks about how to save Stiles. Nothing can be done now that the kid erected the barrier with such a forceful surge of his power. She can’t get in and Dylan can’t get out. It’s been many years since she has felt so useless. It's like watching her family die all over again. The only thing she can think to do as she stands naked outside Beacon Hill’s only erotic cake shop, is to yell at the incubus,

“Call Deaton!”

 

"STILES"

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski is driving through the dregs of old main on patrol and taking care to swerve around the pot holes that should really be called small sinkholes. He takes a second and then third look to make sure he is seeing things right, and yes, that is a very luscious posterior of a naked woman. He slows the patrol car to a stop just before the driver's side tire crushes an emerald sandal, carelessly flung like the rest of her clothes in the middle of the street.

It is twenty years too soon to be dealing with another of Old Dyl’s cake porn modeling incidents gone ugly. Once was enough.

Stilinski has his finger poised over the call button of his radio ready to report the disturbance to dispatch when a scream makes him pause. In the open door of the erotic pastry shop, the dark haired woman screams his son’s name again.

Damn protocol, he tosses the radio to the side and throws open his door. He is pretty certain no other being in this small town shares such a ridiculous nickname and if the sheer desperation of the woman’s voice is any indication, his son is in trouble.

And oh, is he in trouble. The little brat lied by omission about his summer employment. Working in a bakery, true, the boy did say that; if Dyl’s Dough can even be considered a bakery. The church on Second certainly thinks the place is the Devil’s work for the number of complaints the station gets about pornographic sugar treats like dick pops and busty negligee cakes tempting the good folks to eternal damnation.

Really, the Sheriff should have known something was up when his health-hard-on son offered him junk food. He thought it was Stiles way of saying he’d miss him at college or the not-apology for the impressive hole that just appeared in the drywall outside his bedroom door, hidden conveniently by a house plant. The boy isn’t exactly been subtle with the usual sugary diversionary tactic. The fact that the job involves sugar and porn together makes it frankly, unbelievable that his son hasn’t exposed himself out of pure happiness.

But then again, the Sheriff needs to pull his head out of his ass and work on his deductive skills if he has missed his son’s signature blue 1976 jeep parked outside Dyl’s every day of for the last few weeks. And he can’t blame the pot holes as a distraction when the suspicious pastry peace offerings came in flesh tones with missing ornaments in strategic positions; damaged just enough that he never got the full picture. When he asked his son what was meant to be on the top, Stiles flushed red and said he had picked the gummy bears off on his way home. He had believed Stiles and now his son has gotten mixed up in one of Old Dyl’s shady dealings.

If that dried up porn star has anything to do with this incident, he’ll have the boss in handcuffs faster than the prostitutes in lockup gossip Old Dyl lasts in the sack; just short side of a minute.

When he shuts the patrol door and cautiously approaches the naked woman from behind, he can tell how beautiful the young woman really is. She is all curves and confidence and he has to reign in his libido’s reaction to her presence. He chastises himself for the rookie behavior; he is on the job and has to keep a clear head for a possible volatile situation.

The female turns to him with defeated tears in her eyes at his approach. It disturbs him to see the flash of the child, who this woman once was, on her pretty face. It makes him feel dirty to have just a moment ago felt desire for his dead friend’s daughter. Talia Hale would laugh at his unease, but when he looks at this naked woman he sees both the teenage version of Laura and her incredible likeness to her mother, he almost calls her Talia.

Pushing through the numbness that comes to mind the last time he saw the woman alive, her tragic death only the first in a whiskey drenched period of personal loss for him, he tries to calm his nerves and focus on why this girl from the past is here, naked, and crying. But Laura will have to wait because he sees his son, collapsed on the floor and in pain.

“Oh god, Stiles! What happened?” The Sheriff rushes past Laura and into the bakery. He slips as he crouches down on the wet floor, soaking his pants through with tepid water and looking no better than his sopping wet son. The father tries again to get Stiles’ attention and is rewarded when his son’s eyes flutter open. Their honey color is drowning in a pool of red broken blood vessels and quickly squeeze tight as another tremor of pain rips through his son’s body. “Dad- it hurts.”

The kid is burning with fever.

The Sheriff reaches for his cellphone, but curses as he realizes his phone and personal radio are sitting in the passenger side of the squad car. The Sheriff’s hand automatically goes to his sidearm when a figure comes rushing out of a small front office with a cellphone to his ear. It takes a moment until he finally recognizes the blue whale of a man is Old Dyl. The ex porn star is covered in blue frosting, cake crumbs and scratches with… what looks like blood, but not the right color, so the Sheriff dismisses the fluid as something else confectionary. Sheriff doesn’t judge, but the erotic pastry shop owner really has strange taste with the strap on wings. “Good, you got the ambulance on line.”

“Actually Sheriff… it’s Dr. Deaton.”

 

 

Suffice to say the Sheriff doesn’t take Laura and Dylan’s lack of cooperation to call the paramedics well. He takes being denied the chance to call them himself even worse. Their hindrance to his usual means of communication doesn’t prevent him from driving his son himself, so he folds his son gently in his arms and storms the door. He is baffled that he can’t even cross the threshold. Only moments before he was fine. "What the hell!"

Laura, who reluctantly stepped to the side after much shouting about waiting for special help was absolutely shocked to see the Sheriff and son bounce back from the open door and promptly dissolved into more tears. Her apologies to Derek make as little sense to him as the invisible force that prevents them from leaving.  

In a fit of anger and general fright, the Sheriff demands they provide answers as he slowly lowers his son onto the only dry surface, the wood work table in the center of the room. The unintelligible grunts coming out of his delirious son are about as understandable as the half-cocked explanation they reluctantly give about the supernatural, the erotic pastry shop’s defense system, and why Stiles is hurt. The odd pair keep pressing that Deaton, the veterinarian down on First Boulevard, is the only person that can help and is already on his way. The doctor will be the best to fill the Sheriff in on the rest when he gets here to stabilize Stiles’ "spark".

Of course he doesn't believe them.

Curses and threats to arrest the two are met with silence and they continue to helplessly watch Stiles scream on the table. Laura, now dressed in an oversized sweat shirt and sweat pants, she could have only stolen from the squad car as they read Beacon Hills Sheriff Department, is standing outside of the shop, right by the door where he first found her, talking into her cellphone she retrieved from the curb outside.

Learning that a man named Tommy is bringing an unconscious Derek, whom the Sheriff assumes to be Derek Hale, is in no way comforting. It just adds to the chaos of the situation. He now has to deal with two more possible suspects and the use of non-consensual drugging and possible kidnapping. In addition, he has a clear malpractice suite of a veterinarian operating as a human doctor, plus associate to whatever the hell is going on in this erotic pastry shop to investigate. His deputies are set to start surveillance on this business for unrelated crimes preceding this cluster fuck of a case. How he is going to explain his son's employment and possible conflict of interest working the case with guys at the station, he has no idea because all he can think about is his boy dying on the table and no one is doing anything.

Alone with no backup and an injured son, the Sheriff is at his whit’s end at handling the stress these wackos continue to throw at him.

Laura has given up explaining why Derek is necessary because frankly every little bit more of this tall crazy tale the Sheriff hears is landing them in a forced seventy-two hour lock up at Eichen House, on top of a multitude of charges. Flashing red eyes at him is not going to change the man’s mind, despite the evidence that the supernatural exists staring him right in the face.

The Sheriff is not sure if it’s a good thing when a smooth male voice speaks from behind Laura and confirms her claim to be an alpha werewolf, “Alpha Hale, this is unfortunate circumstances to meet again after so long.”

“Deaton, please help him… he couldn’t cross his own work. The timing, while improbable is not impossible. You have to save them.” Laura pleads.

She and Deaton share a meaningful look, before the Sheriff interrupts. “Please just do something for my boy, since these idiots won’t call for an ambulance or allow me access to a phone! Preventing me from doing my job is a violation of law and you Ms. Hale and Mr. O’Brien will be in cuffs, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Easy Sheriff, it is daunting task to pass through the looking glass and see the world for what it really is or rather, what it really isn’t.”

“Cut the crap! Do something or I will add your name to the list for the prison bus to Eichen House like those two yahoos.”

“As much as my sister would like to see me, I am sure she would rather see me outside of office hours. Let’s see what we got.” Deaton’s calm reply reveals a hint of excitement; hardly appropriate for the dire circumstance as he studies the door frame.

“Amazing. Claudia had the touch, but her son carries _Her_ blessing. I have not seen such a powerful gift in all my cycles… and you said he was glowing?” Deaton looks to Old Dyl for confirmation.

Dylan, now with a considerably less frosting caked on his face and stashed the costume wings, nods his head to the veterinarian.

The Sheriff watches as a silent conversation passes between Laura and Deaton, before Deaton finally turns back to the door. “Then I best take care.”

Despite what the Sheriff thinks sounds like words with the intent of action, he is a bit bemused that the mysterious veterinarian is still standing outside the door and frowning in concentration. The man is playing a mime as he pushes at thin air like he is stuck and can come no further.  A nearly silent sound falls off his lips like a wonder filled prayer, “Remarkable.”

Frustration at the wasteful amount of time passing as his kid suffers; the Sheriff kindly reminds them of the emergency by drawing his firearm and clicking the safety off.  “I’ll ignore that you seem to be on a first name basis with my dead wife, Dr. Deaton, if you’ll kindly see to my son. Now, please!”

“Of course, Sheriff. This will just take a moment for me to work around; even I am stopped by Stiles’ manipulation of the mountain ash buried under the door. While incredibly powerful, the boy lacks knowledge of the subtle weave of warding magic. His barrier would be permanent to all those supernatural had he succeeded. Lucky for the proprietor of this shop, I can take it down eventually. But for now I need to find the proverbial back door of this barrier to untangle Stiles sloppy, yet effective work. I just need enough to let us slip through and then, when Stiles has a little rest and a lot of training, he can help me clean up the rest in about two to three months.”

“WHAT?” Old Dyl screams at the prospect of needing a druid to ferry his supernatural patrons in and out for the coming months. Where the hell is he going to find a druid with that kind of time, skill, and willing to work for minimum wage?

 

 

* * *

“This is completely illegal and should it be known that I tipped you off, Mr. O’Brien, then it would cost me more than my job, but in light of recent events and Stiles’ needs-” The Sheriff pauses to look over his shoulder at Stiles, curled tightly in a blanket burrito clutching tight to Derek’s chest, also asleep after today's ordeals. Werewolves apparently are impervious to disease and thankfully, it’s Derek who is making contact with the office couch not his son.

That disgusting excuse of furniture will be the first thing to go around here. He doesn’t want Stiles catching any STDs from the incubus’ dinner table. In fact he will need to have the entire office sterilized, before Stiles moves in. He rubs his hands subconsciously to rid the germs from this foul den on his pant leg and continues his conversation with the stubborn incubus.

This conversation goes against all his morals, but his son needs him more than he needs the Sheriff. Getting the incubus to agree is the only way things are going to be okay for Stiles and…

Let’s just say finding out Stiles is working in an erotic pastry shop has long been forgotten. Stiles being supernatural, that’s pie. Stiles’ dad thumbs over his split knuckles with satisfaction remembering the pleasure of punching Dr. Deaton, 'call me Alan’, in the jaw for calling his wife a witch. It seemed like the most therapeutic reaction to express his feeling for this unbelievable day.

Though Alan didn’t find it entirely pleasant, he didn’t blame him for it. After all, the Sheriff had just met his son’s new boyfriend, who had provided the key ingredient in the recipe for a very rare male pregnancy. He would have punched Derek, but punching an unconscious man is hardly satisfying. So instead he went for the messenger. And again, no one blamed him.

Stiles, gods, his son is a witch-born spark and not only did he have sex with a male werewolf, but was knotted and bred thoroughly by Derek in Rut. His son never does things in halves. Not even twelve hours have passed and they know Stiles is pregnant. Apparently supernatural pregnancies are a bit more immediate and conclusive, especially when it comes to male pregnancy.

The Sheriff tries to scour the memory of their test process from his brain. He needs bleach, lot’s of bleach.

In the process of proving his son's pregnancy, he got more than an eye full. Peeing on a stick doesn't seem to be a test option for a magic based conception. Instead, Laura dragged her unconscious brother from her fiancé’s car and deposited the body at his feet. The mess of a male werewolf in rut is not a pretty thing, hence the need to bleach his brain.

The smell was worse than anything, including his son’s room after he discovered the joy of his right hand during puberty. The true horror of the moment was witnessing Derek’s straining erection, hidden under pre-cum soaked pants, begin to wilt the second the unconscious scruffy faced man touched the ground. Derek sleepily sighed in exhausted relief as the sizeable tent in his pants lost its chub. A squishing sound of fluids and wet cloth bubbling to accommodate Little Derek's new shape still echoes in the Sheriff's brain.

The rest of Derek’s tense muscles followed in a similar manner, until Derek rested in content sleep. Just as Derek slipped into oblivion he reached out for Stiles, also resting on the floor after his ordeal, and placed his large hand over Stiles' abdomen and mumbled “Mine,” through his fever cracked lips. Not that the Sheriff was questioning the identity of the father, given his son had only been with one partner for one night, but the werewolf proved to be the sire.

It took everything the Sheriff had as the enraged parent, not to stomp on the bastard for knocking up his eighteen year old boy. Only Stiles, who hadn’t said a word up to that point stopped him from doing so. His son smiled and said, “Ours” to the sleeping werewolf.

Laura failed to hide her jealousy as she explained the test. The rut ended the second the male knows the female, or male in Stiles case, has been fertilized. Derek not only had knotted his mate, but has a pup on his way. She should have just shoved Tommy down and skipped their traditional wedding and raped him for his seed. Curse his mother and her insistence they do things proper. The alpha bitch of course took her own therapeutic stress release out on the bakery instead of her lucky brother. Dylan was not pleased to see the dents in the industrial mixer and hole in the oven door upon his return from the office shower.

 

 

The Sheriff sighs in resigned exhaustion and tries to focus on persuading Old Dyl to help Stiles out. His grandchild will likely be a werewolf like his father given that Stiles cannot pass over his own mountain ash barrier with the little supernatural being inside him. Alan advised the Stilinskis that Stiles could not be moved or even cross the barrier until Stiles’ magic had settled. Alan would use the time to teach Stiles some basic control exercises.

His power did too much, too soon and now the kid is really paying for it. Had Stiles been any less powerful his spark would have killed him outright. Thankfully, the last of his damaged core settled to protect the newly fertilized embryo. Deaton helped stabilize Stiles and together they managed to set things right in his weakened core.

However, fixing the damage has left Stiles too raw to try and break the barrier. It will likely take two weeks before the magic in him can come into any contact with outside influences of the same nature. Even with Deaton ferrying the boy across it would risk losing the pup to pull his dormant spark from the newly stabilized core.

So his son is stuck living in an erotic pastry shop for the time being and Old Dyl is none too happy.  

So the Sherriff has to offer up a pretty big incentive for Old Dyl to help and that comes in the form of a tip off.

“The IRS has taken an interest in your tax evasion schemes and oversea accounts. Your age of six hundred and eighty-two years explains your wealth accumulation, but to the Feds you’re suspicious. Given your connections in the porn industry and testimonies from jilted partners, your name has come up one too many times in several on going investigations. Should you decide to see the Riviera today, it will give you enough time to empty your foreign accounts to remove the funds. As my office has only been notified to set up surveillance on your person yesterday, it can be excused that the investigation will not begin until after the weekend. We are a thinly stretched office as it is, so the delay is nothing out of the ordinary. This gives you a full seventy-two hours, enough time to disappear. You can stay and fight it, but you’re looking at a lot of years in prison and money for legal defense. Believe me after two weeks stuck in the bakery with my son and Derek, you’ll be looking forward to prison. In my professional opinion, you should save yourself and take off now.”

A muffled protest comes from the burrito resting on the sleeping werewolf, but the men ignore it.

“Damn it! Fucking IRS are all speciesists douchebags! FINE! Your twerp can stay. It’s not like I have choice, Deaton only has enough mojo to get one supernatural out at this point and lover boy is going nowhere.”

Dylan hisses, an incubus demon trait when he becomes agitated, as he takes a good long last look at his cozy setup. It's only one of many businesses he has run through out his long life, but he’ll be sad to see her go and so soon. Some ruddy whore he might have given crabs to, probably wanted him to pay and tipped off his enemies to his newest hideaway in this small town. Fucking demons have no sense to duke things out like they did in the old days. Now they just use the Feds to take care of their interests.

Oh well, it's like his motto in life, you love em' then you eat them. And on the plus, he didn’t get gutted by a werewolf today.

“Stilinski,” he barks, “don’t fuck up my baby. Keep her going and lock her tight at night. Someone’s got to fight those Bible thumpers on Second Street from outlawing em dick pops.”

“My son is not taking over this sleaze hole for you.”

“Why the hell not?!”

 

* * *

[finally some action] 

“Derek- is this really ok?”

“Probably not, we shouldn’t let our bare skin touch anything in here.”

“No you idiot! I’m talking about this,” Stiles motions to his belly, still protectively cocooned in the blankets, where apparently there is a pup growing, and rapidly.

Deaton revealed that werewolf gestation is only five to six months in time.

He has only had a couple hours to digest this information, but he knows he could have lost the little bugger today and it scares him so much. He wants the child, werewolf pup –semantics. Regardless of species, he knows this is what he wants. His magic would have rejected the parasite if he felt negatively about it. But he doesn’t, so his spark did everything in its ability to keep it, even at the cost of his health. _Thank you, Deaton._

Stiles needs to know this is something Derek wants; that he’ll want him with a pup. Sure Derek’s poor abused dick agrees that Stiles being pregnant is a good thing because it can have a reprieve, but he hasn’t heard it from Derek.

Derek’s eyes glow and he grasps Stiles’ chin, so the younger man will look him in the face. Stiles’ eyes are filled with tears and Derek grumbles that his mate looks defeated already. “Stiles for years, I have only thought of you. I lost more than just my family here in Beacon Hills, I lost the chance to be near my mate. I thought for a long time that I never deserved to have anything good in my life and then I got you back.”

“Tell me about it. I mean you just yanked out your dick and were like, ‘Behold my godly form. I am art. Now, mold my knot into cake, so I may be worshipped.’ Bom, bam, thank you man later and we have a baby recipe. Take baby batter and set oven on high cause were bakin’ a cake. What am I? Your microbake?”

Stiles’ nervous chatter to deflect their serious moment with humor gets put on hold as Derek slams his mouth over Stiles’ lips and proceeds to kiss his nerves away. Eventually Derek has to pull away. He is so exhausted from the rut that his healing ability has yet to fix his chaffed pole. Getting an erection now would probably land on the Geneva Convention’s list of illegal torture methods.

Stiles on the other hand, could still use a hand or his mouth.

But not here, Derek’s nose knows better than Stiles’. He carefully scoops his lust dazed mate up off the filthy couch and carries him out into the less toxic areas of the bakery. Derek smirks as he watches the confusion of the sudden change of location throws Stiles off. He loves how deeply he can affect his mate.

Making quick work of Stiles lower half, Derek strips him bare and lifts to deposit him next to the register. Stiles jumps as his bare ass touches the cold glass of the display case under him. He is mortified when Derek manages to find the case lighting and his semi is back lit by fluorescent white light. “Turn it off!”

“Got to see what’s on display.”

Stiles doesn’t think there is much to see. His pale skin looks unflattering and the moles dusting his body look even more prominent and ugly in the harsh light's glare. But Derek doesn’t seem to care. He is busy teasing his cock with fluttering kisses and admiring the dew of pre-come pearling from the slit. Stiles relaxes into his lover’s ministrations and just goes with Derek’s strange quirks.

“You are the most delicious looking thing on display.”

Stiles opens his eyes to make sure Derek is not charming up an éclair or some other confection from the case. He half expects Derek to have a ring of powdered sugar around his scruffy maw.

The man and sugar is something; the man and sugar and sex are whole lot of somethings to look out for. An ember ignites in his heart as he finds Derek looking at him and not any of the other tempting delicacies in the case.

“Going to see how you taste.” Derek arches over and takes his erection in one go, the glutton.

“Ahhh-“

Derek is busy humming his pleasure as he feels Stiles’ filling out to his complete size. Full and heavy on his tongue, Derek manages to angle the cockhead back down his throat for a second pass. He leans back until just the head is engulfed in his warm mouth and gives Stiles’ cock and hard suck. Maybe putting the dofus on a glass surface while he pulled out all his tricks was a bad idea because the kid is all limbs and kicks hard onto the sliding glass panels with his heals.  

Stiles is just as shocked by the rattling bang as Derek. “Shit, sorry. You don’t think anyone heard that?”

“Idiot.” Derek mumbles glad for his quick reaction time because he almost bit Stiles in the scare. He is really glad Stiles didn't notice. “My idiot.”

Derek knells down and grabs Stiles’ troublesome legs and maneuvers them over his shoulders. When (not if, because Bambi will do it again as he has no control over the gangly things) Derek’s ravishing attention becomes too much for Stiles, he won’t **A** : break the case and hurt himself **and/or B** : alert the entire neighborhood that something is going down in the closed erotic pastry shop causing an alert to the cops. Derek only just managed to get the hovering father out of the bakery without a shell to his chest for getting Stiles up the duff. The Sheriff’s itchy trigger finger would love another excuse.

“You get that Stiles. You are mine. My choice. Mine to savor. Forever.” Derek punctuates each point with a bruising nip on his mate’s inner thigh. His breath ghosts over the twitching tip of the cockhead, but he is looking up into Stiles’ lust blown pupils and waiting for Stiles’ brain to absorb his declaration.

Stiles is who he is and doesn’t disappoint Derek when he masks his low self-esteem with an excuse or a joke. “Who’s to say I’m the best choice. There are other display cases in here, Derek. You might prefer a bacon cunt-cake in the take away refrigerator. It’s got bacon lips and doesn’t come with as much baggage.”

“Don’t call our pup baggage!”

“It also has chocolate. Chocolate and bacon in tight folds, I know you’d love it.”

“Shut up Stiles and listen. I love you unquantifiably more than some fleeting sugar high with two albeit very tasty ingredients. I want a home with you. I want a family. Our pup is us, Stiles. There are no others, just us. Besides you make the best chocolate,” Derek fake laughs at his poor joke, but starts chuckling at the disgusted look on Stiles’s face. He'll get Stiles hooked on chocolate.

Stiles isn't laughing. He is biting his bottom lip as he processes Derek’s confession and it’s worrying Derek that he may have bared a bit too much about his feelings, too soon. He never was very good with these things and laughing at him right after saying he loves him, probably was bad. God, he sucks at this stuff.

But there are tears in Stiles eyes as he watches the range of Derek’s emotions and quickly reassures his floundering mate. “Despite your less than savory addiction to chocolate, I love you Derek Hale.”

Stiles bends down in an impressive display of flexibility and seizes Derek’s lips in a smoldering kiss. He straightens back up, ignoring Derek’s displeased moan at breaking the kiss. Amber eyes glow with mirth as he takes his ignored cock in hand and offers up the delicacy, “You picked your treat. Now eat me.”

 

* * *

#   **Epilogue**

 

_“Stilinski,” he barks, “don’t fuck up my baby. Keep her going and lock her tight at night. Someone’s got to fight those Bible thumpers on Second Street from outlawing em dick pops.”_

_“My son is not taking over this sleaze hole for you.”_

_“Why the hell not?!”_

 

Stiles ends up making dick pops, but only the confection ones are for sale. Derek and Stiles like to enjoy each other’s dick pops privately.

If Stiles happens to mold a knot version of Derek’s dick out of rice crispy treats and sell them as a to-go item, Derek doesn’t complain. Everyone loves his new werewolf themed options and honestly, Stiles loves how his model/muse insists he needs to be reminded of sculpting basics. All. The. Time.

While locked up for hours on his mate’s knot, Stiles has plenty of time to sculpt the many orders of sugary perversion people flock to the shop to get. His libido is near insatiable as a prego and Derek is a very happy man to accommodate his growing mate with his dick thermometer checking the oven temperature throughout the day.

Post coital is a surprisingly creative time for Stiles and he dreams up new ideas for their business; renamed in honor of Derek as Dough Knots since Dylan is long gone. The Feds bankrupted Dyl’s on criminal charges and they got such a good deal from the demons at the bank to keep the church from moving into the neighborhood with a bible reading room the place was practically free. With the quick turn over, Stiles has decided to postpone college for a couple years as they get their business and family started.

The Sheriff was hardly pleased, but relented when Stiles mentioned staying in Beacon Hills would give him access to his magic teacher, Dr. Deaton to learn control. He also said he is happy and no father could take that from his child. So, Stiles makes a ton of knots pops with his father’s blessing.

Bridging the business into the modern era proved fruitful. Internet sales for supernatural dick pops are huge. Seriously, Old Dyl was sitting on a land mind and never struck it right. Stiles though, gods, he knows how to strike it right. If Derek’s satisfied grunts are a testament to that. He even catches Derek purring as they cuddle in the newly furnished office.

The ambiance of the place has never smelt better. While Dylan tried to sell the scent with backroom sex and get a meal out of it, the place only felt cheap and skanky. Under the new ownership, Derek and Stiles make the place into an orgasm for every olfactory inclined customer that walks through the door. Apparently, happy pregnant baker smells amazing and it’s very marketable.

Laura has long gotten over her fury at Stiles, almost killing him and Derek’s pup really puts things in perspective. The Sheriff still in a huff about her role in his son’s near death dragged her down to the station for questioning. When it was revealed what motive she had to attack his son, he found out about Stiles’ dark joke. The earful Stiles got for that made it clear, the Sheriff didn’t find his son’s revenge tasteful. He still made Laura go to seventy-two hour lock-up at the mental health facility to get a hold of her murderous tendencies. The Asters had a fit and Laura had a pampered weekend spent catching up with her friend Marin Morrell, far away from her in-laws.

Most affected by the Sheriff's snit about good baking and clean conscious was Grammy Agatha. Thankfully still healthy as a horse after consuming Stiles’ ‘chocolate,’ the old biddy is dismayed to find the shop’s batches of blackberry cream puffs not as delicious as those at the fateful brunch. Unknown to Stiles at the time, he subconsciously drugged the cream puffs using his Spark when he added his tainted ingredient. His irritation and desire for _Bridzilla_ to ‘eat him and love it’ literally carried into the cream by the conduit of his ‘chocolate’ in the mixture. Of course Grammy Agatha didn’t know about that little trick, she just recalls how she couldn’t stop at just one.

It took another ‘special treat’ for Stiles realize he could influence the mood of his tasters like the movie _Like Water for Chocolate_. For their one month anniversary Stiles made a ‘special chocolate’ treat for Derek and imbued the laced batter with his desire for Derek to ‘love it’. To his mate’s horror after just one bite, Derek dropped pants and literally made love to it. Recognizing a spell at work, now that he knew a thing or two about his magic, Stiles had taken great care to clean up his mistake with his tongue as an apology. He even threw in a blow job for his sour wolf.

Derek, reassured, but not content that he lost his treat to Stiles and the floor was still itching for his ‘chocolate fix’ and went straight for the source. One supremely messy sexathon working out their personal kinks (chocolate and Derek's knot) and Stiles was back to the bakery working out the spell’s kinks. (A/N: Ew, no more ‘chocolate’ guys!)

So now, Stiles’ employs a bit of his Spark when he crafts his sweets, free of less savory personal ingredients (the health department is strict on that kind of thing, plus Stiles agrees it’s very wrong; it is only okay when Laura is evil, but she refuses his baked goods, but the joke is on her because he doesn't do anything to them). His influence is subtle and his customers have never been so satisfied. Nothing too untoward to be considered nonconsensual drugging; Deaton would call him out on that as he is constantly popping in to impart wisdom to his eager student and check on the unborn pup. Stiles just loves delivering what his customers want.

And they love it.

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like?
> 
> Check out Part 3 for Lactation Kink and remember to read the warnings because it is kind of weird.
> 
> I was thinking about a scenario like this for part IV:
> 
> Hunters in the bakery/pregnancy sex/ new creature reveal in the form of pastry order/ pup’s birth/ Laura as an alpha and aunt  
> With additional characters: Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Chris, Kate, Lydia and Jackson  
> Working title: Why friend discounts don’t count for girlfriends, especially girlfriends who are hunters.
> 
> Anyone interested in reading more or have suggestions for a different plot line let me know. If you are itching to play in this sandbox, go for it, just let me know so I can read your work!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
